INK & SOUL
by GRIMMANGELL
Summary: Sherlock Holmes isn't a fairy. Fairies don't exist and even if they did, they sure as hell wouldn't be like her. They wouldn't solve crimes. Fem!lock AU OOC JOHN
1. BACK AWAY SLOWLY

The thing about having nothing ever happen to you is that when wishing something actually did you often forget to factor in Murphy's Law of Effect.

And for all those who read a little too much Vanity Fair, that means anything that could go wrong will go wrong.

There's a nice little cartoon in the States about it.

Funny.

And trust me, it's anything but funny when it happens to you.

Aside from being arrested for falling asleep during a suicide that actually turned out to be a murder, I also stubbed my toe on some sort of chessboard table thing and got thrown out of my flat.

Good news, I'm now friends(? Hard to tell) with a fairy.

A sarcastic one.

Who solves crimes.

And she's eerily good at what she does.

A part of me feels like it sounds like a fairytale and I can already see you moving your mouse to click away.

Go on.

I won't stop you.

In fact, I encourage you to.

But chew on this, those of you who stayed, it's only a fairytale if it's written in the wrong universe.

But I need a couple of irrefutable witnesses just in case, so I'll tell you exactly how Murphy screwed me over.

I'll start with the fact that my job sucks.

It's not enough being shot in the shoulder, when you get home alive, they do their best to make you want a bullet to brain too.

Grey and dreary even on the prettiest of days, Lainister Hospital and Clinic puts the 'pain' into its name.

With its slowly dying secretary and painful bright white death lights, it was almost believable that it'd be the scene of a murder..

Note that, I said _almost_.


	2. HARRI, BABE SHE DIDN'T ASK FOR A SHRINK

_It's only a fairy tale if you're in the wrong universe._

Smiling to myself, I read the very first post as the woman behind me lounges like a cat, fastidiously nursing a chocolate biscuit.

"He didn't know how true he was until he met me."

I agree,

"Until he met you."

"But he always has the nastiest habit of glossing over the reality."

"Like what?"


	3. DOCTOR-SUICIDE CONFIDENTIALITY

"-and that's why I think he's in love with a cow, Dr. Watson."

He blinked blearily at the woman he could have sworn was twenty that was in reality a lot closer to the grave than he was and gripping her teenaged-son as though he were a frightened cat about to be neutered.

Then his brain caught up to the words " _in love with a cow_ ".

And formulated an intelligent

"Huh."

Much MD.

Much degree.

God, his _life_ was a waste of time.

How long until a kid was in love with a ca- Nevermind, that was last week.

He had been staring at the pile of paperwork on his desk for God knows and came _this_ close to eating a patient's profile instead of Nick's tuna sandwich.

It probably would have tasted better.

But he decided enough was enough and if he was turning into a middle-class zombie, he might as well do it with a bar of Hershey's Cookies and Creme in his stomach.

After coughing up £. 45 for the chocolate, he had ducked into the abandoned nursery to relax in its cot the moment his hands started to shake.

There wasn't a thing that could wake him.

Until he _did_ wake up, facing the business end of a gun.

And a curvaceous woman wearing a familiar scowl glares at him.

"Samantha?"

Sherlock holds up a hand at that and he gazes at her.

That shirt definitely accentuates her neck, he muses as he mouths the word ' _jealous_?' at her and she flippantly ignores him.

She reminded him too much of himself not to intrigue him.

She sat on the other side of the iron bars, questioning him about his side of events and hadn't interrupted... until now.

"You _slept_ with Donovan then forgot her name?"

He offers a sheepish smile and shrugged.

"She wasn't memorable."

She paused and then nodded seriously - as though he couldn't see the smirk she ducked her head to hide.

"Continue."

After the honest to goodness mistake, she had _tazed_ him.

Then he woke up to a text message from Nick kicking him out of their shared flat and a grey cell around him.

And five minutes ago, a beautiful woman with dark hair and intriguing eyes - " _The eye-rolling, not doing any favors to the ego, Sherlilocks."_ \- had quite literally appeared out of the thin air with the appearance of steam; a cup of coffee in hand and the question,

"So... How was Afghanistan?"

She was lucky she was hot.

And he told her as much.

To which, she responded by flashing a badge with strange puncture marks.

"Really want to piss off yet another officer? Do tell what _else_ has New York taught you on getting arrested."

"Bite me - I flirt when I'm nervous."

She deadpans,

" _Kinky_. But I do need details on the crime so if I'm going to waste my time, I've got a good excuse."

So he did.

And _now_ she wouldn't stop pacing and texting someone.

She suddenly turned on her heel and flicked her wrist sharply, surprising John as the cell door flew open.

"I have 2 days to prove you innocent. Come with me."

He takes a look at the cell before hurrying up the stone stairs after her but loses trace of her in the crowd until she sharply yanks him behind a desk.

"Keep up."

He stares at her for a moment as an idea starts to emerge in all its horror.

"Are you breaking me out?!"

She looks around the corner as she replies,

"After a fashion."

"I knew you couldn't resist me."

As he waggles his eyebrows at her, she rolls her eyes and firmly grasps his hands and he's surprised he hadn't noticed the silk ivory gloves concealing her hands.

But that quickly becomes irrelevant as his legs began to disappear with an odd tingle and he could no longer feel his arms.

"Sher-"

"Close your eyes if you are nauseous."

The world had reduced to the interior of a car and it was the sun he was uncontrollably orbiting.

After cursing Sherlock, God and whatever-her-name-was Donovan, he sits up and looks around.

" _Classy_."

"Thanks."

The car really is classy, though.

A lot of money, last he saw this model on TV, it had been over 25,000 pounds.

And he briefly wondered if she were a drug dealer.

She looks at him with a snarky winner's smile and speaks,

"Are you blind, interested or have you just realized how godlike I am?"

"Police officers can't afford this."

"I'm not an officer."

He stares at her.

"I'm Batman. Batman doesn't answer to the precinct."

He can't help but snort at her inflated ego as the tyres of the car screech their discomfort as she peels away.

"Where exactly are we headed?"

She hums a non-answer for a couple of minutes as the driver behind them honks blazingly.

"Do you even _have_ a driver's license?"

She blinks at him before shaking her head and the car drifts out of their lane.

"Nope. Do you have a place I could drop you off and not have to rebreak you out of prison?"

He thinks about it in between watching his life flash before his eyes.

"Could you vanish me off to New York?"

"If you're fine losing a limb... _Absolutely_. And when I say a limb.. I mean a limb and a quarter."

"The snark isn't necessary."

She rolls her eyes at him as they come to a halt at the stop sign.

"But, my dear Watson, it _truly_ is."

He gives her a look that had scared many an intern in its day and she has the gall to mock it.

" _Speaking_ of which, is this where you work?"

Looking at the grey dilapidated clinic, he could justify the incredulousness of her voice but he still couldn't figure out why they were here.

"Yeah..."

"Good."

She twisted the key in the ignition and lightly taps the wooden dashboard.

"We're going back to Kansas."

By Kansas, if anyone was confused - i.e., _himself_ \- she meant the scene of the crime.

When they first entered the building, she paused before dramatically, her voice quivering,

"God, is that _you_?"

He looks back at her and for all the world, she actually looks like she's having a religious vision.

"Me or the light?"

She stops with the dramatics and stares at him blankly,

"The light, _of course_."

Step by step, she continues the aimless banter - the light looked better, she claimed. It looked like she died. - until they reached the room.

Sherlock peers over the edge of the door's glass in such a smooth move that he almost disregarded the fact she was on her toes to see.

She was _sho_ -

"Do shut up, won't you?"

She quietly stares at the scene for a moment.

"John, come look at this."

Stepping beside her easily, he peeks at the carnage the Yard thought _him_ responsible for.

He had seen things - horrible things, beautiful things, somber and happy - but those had been left behind with the departure from the army.

This was supposed to be left as well.

There was blood _everywhere_.

The body - a woman dressed entirely in pink from the dress to her pumps - lay facedown, her hand outstretched in the pool of blood her neck steadily dribbled.

There was a spray of crimson recoloring the flamingo pink of the wall and obscuring the dusty pacifier of the wall bordering.

There are footprints soaked in blood and wandering around the room in a macabre dance step tutorial.

A slight click draws his attention back to the slightly diminutive detective taking photos on her mobile.

She studies it for a few seconds before she snorts decisively.

"Oh, Lestrade, you shouldn't have."

She pins him under her silver eyes and he forgets the rest of his two-inch advantage.

"You _slept_ through a crime."

" _What_?"

"You're innocent, _OBVIOUSLY_. But you were present when she killed herself. Present but _asleep_ , of all things!"

He interjects quickly before he loses her to the tirade,

"How does a suicide constitute as a crime?"

She gives him a dangerous smile that sends tingling down his spine.

"Because it wasn't suicide. It was murder."


End file.
